Junior
by RabbitsAhoy
Summary: When John finds a small kitten and insists on keeping it, life at 221B Baker Street gets turned on it's side.


A/N: This is crazy, stupid fluff. John and Sherlock friendship, possibly might dissolve into slash. Depends on my mood. Got this idea from a crack!fic where Sherlock ejaculate kittens. Yeah. Don't ask.

Nothing belongs to me, I wish it did!

Sherlock was wrist deep in sheep innards when the front door swung open, back to John as he came into the flat, oddly quiet. Sherlock half listened to John's tentative steps, which went between the stairs and the kitchen.

"I, uh-" John stuttered, and Sherlock didn't have to look to know he was wetting his lips nervously. "I'm just heading up to bed-"

"What's in your hands?" Sherlock interrupted, quickly preparing a slide to examine under a microscope he had nicked from St. Bards.

"Nothing's in my hands!" John uttered. It was far too fast to be innocent, and had jumped an octave above his normal tenor. Sherlock sighed heavily and resigned himself to looking away from his experiment at John.

He had his hands tucked behind his back, eyebrows raised innocently, and he was chewing on his lower lip. Sherlock could see his pulse thrumming quickly in his throat, and how a light sheen of sweat had erupted on his forehead. The obvious conclusion was that John was lying (badly), and was very nervous about something.

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to comment when suddenly the front of John's coat shifted quickly. John's eyes flickered down, and he looked back up to see Sherlock's icy eyes glued onto the pocket. Busted.

"John, what's in your pocket?" Sherlock wiped his hands off quickly, before stalking towards John.

"Nothing, just my phone..." He started backing away slowly.

"John..." Sherlock's voice was a warning, and suddenly, a small, fuzzy black head peaked out of the pocket in question, and let out a soft mewl.

John immediately flushed from the base of his neck, to the top of his head. Sherlock had recoiled as if burnt, eyes widening.

"What is that?" He exclaimed, disgust dripping off of his words.

"It's a kitten, Sherlock!" John sighed, and indeed it was. He scooped it out of his pocket gently, cradling it against his jumper. It was small, barely a month old, with short, fluffy black fur, ruffled from being in John's pocket, and big blue eyes, which closed as it curled into the wool pressed against it.

"Well, I know that, but why?" Sherlock frowned deeply as he spoke. He didn't look quite so shocked, but was still quite wary.

"I was walking home, and it's mum had been hit my a car. It was all alone in an alley, and it's too young to be alone! I couldn't just leave it." John pouted, curling around it protectively.

"So you decided taking in some stray, probably covered in disease and filth, would be a good idea?" Sherlock scowled, finally moving forward to scowl at the little bundle of fluff.

"At least until it's old enough to be on it's own." John gave it a fond scratch. "Look, it can stay in my room, you won't even see it."

"... Fine." Sherlock finally agreed, pouting. "Just take it away now, I'm in the middle of a very important experiment." He swept back to the table with an air of finality.

John was good to his word, and kept the kitten out of Sherlock's sight, until one afternoon a week later.

Sherlock breezed into the flat, coat flapping around his ankles, to see John laying on the couch, sock-clad feet propped up, jumper discarded and balled up under his head. One arm was tucked under his head, and his shirt was rucked up near his belly-button. He was reading a medical journal, and in an absent-minded manner, stroking the kitten, who had curled up on his stomach.

"I think I'm going to name him Sherlock." John's voice disturbed Sherlock's watchful gaze.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said indignantly. He would not share his name with the little ball of fur.

John tilted his head back to smirk at Sherlock, setting down the medical journal. "He kind of looks like you. Crazy fur- hair," He corrected at Sherlock's glower, "blue eyes, big ears." He returned his attention to the kitten. "Isn't dat wight?" He murmured to the kitten. "Yes it is..." He scratched it's chin softly.

"Oh, God, no." Sherlock's eyes widened again and he fell into one of the chairs.

"Oh, you've found God now?" John commented dryly, not looking up.

"You just- you just coddled the cat!"

"Kitten, and yes. Is there something wrong with that?" John frowned, shifting to sit up. The freshly dubbed Sherlock mewled in annoyance, curling up again in his lap.

"You speak english, I expect it to be spoken correctly." Sherlock scoffed, straightening up as he glowered at the kitten.

"A little baby-talk never hurt anyone. And I'm sure it won't kill you." John shooed the kitten off of his lap. "Would you prefer it if I called him Sherlock Junior? Or just Junior?" John queried, frowning at Sherlock's indigence.

"It would be better..." Sherlock capitulated, before finally leaning over to pick up his violin.

It took only a matter of days before John was manipulating the kitten for his own good. Whenever they would bicker, he would insist that 'Junior' sided with him.

"Look, I'm sure that if the cat could understand a word we said, he would agree that the fact that I'm using your bed to test the decay rates of rats is fine!" Sherlock had sighed one evening.

"Except it's not! And he'd obviously side with me! He sleeps in that bed, too!" John scowled.

"But we have the same name!" Sherlock pouted, crossing his arms. He glared at the kitten in question, who was currently getting tangled in the laces to John's boots.

"Not the point." John crossed his arms as well.

"I'm not stopping the experiment." Sherlock sniffed angrily. That was the cinching proof to convict a man of arson and murder.

"Fine. Then I'm going to use your room." John smirked triumphantly.

Sherlock was quiet for a long time before he finally said, "You can't..."

"And why not?" John questioned. "It's not like you use it, and I do need to sleep somewhere."

"I don't have a bed..." Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes, and instead focused on Junior.

That was enough to shock John into silence. He gaped for a few moments, before collecting himself enough to ask, "Why?"

"It's a distraction, and since when I do sleep, I sleep on the couch, it seemed pointless to buy one."

"I see..." John chewed on his lip. "You take the couch, I'm sure I can check into a hotel or something..."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. It's not like I sleep much anyway. You take the couch. I'll manage."

"Are you sure?" John checked, examining Sherlock.

"Of course. Now, are you done, because I need to go check on the rats."

Sherlock was dreaming.

He had to be. He hadn't used for months, and he knew Mycroft had taken all of his syringes the last time he was here, and John had been diligent about finding any cocaine.

But there it was, right on the inside of his left arm, a sharp prick and a small drop of blood. Despite himself, he found himself excited-

But then there was another. And another! And another!

That wasn't how it worked, that wasn't-

He started awake and found two large blue eyes staring at him.

Sherlock thrashed violently, sending the little kitten flying. It landed with a yowl in a petri dish on the table where Sherlock was currently slumped.

"NO!" He exclaimed, lunging forward to pull the cat out of it. But it lunged away into more of his work, leaving paw prints across them. Junior ran frantically, and Sherlock sprinted after it. "The bloody bacteria is on your paws, you little rat!"

Junior yowled again, and sprinted up the stairs, into John's room, which (fortunately, in John's opinion) had been relieved of all rats.

Sherlock didn't process where he was going, he was simply mentally calculating how much of the bacteria growth could be salvaged from the little beast's paws. So when he leapt after Junior and caught him in one outstretched hand, and let out a triumphant cry, he was quite surprised to see John lying in bed beneath him, glaring at him, with little paw prints on his face.

The detective's surprised must have shown on his face, because John narrowed his eyes even more.

"What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?" His voice was gruff and rumbled deep in his chest. It was obvious he was still half asleep.

"Uh, I, um-" He stuttered, holding Junior upside down. "He got in my experiments."

"The ones with the vodka and E. Coli?" John's voice went dark with anger.

"The exact ones."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Is there E. Coli on my face?"

"Most likely."

"I hate you."


End file.
